


Tolerance

by MistyPaperMoon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Post-Hogwarts, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 14:36:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19320178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyPaperMoon/pseuds/MistyPaperMoon
Summary: Two years after the Battle of Hogwarts and Voldemort's victory, Hermione enters the ministry undercover in a quest to search for her missing parents. | Dramione!"We tolerate each other," she said with a small smile."Oh!" he replied, exaggerating his surprise. "Is that what I'm doing wrong? This whole time I was looking for somebody to fall in love with, when what I should really have been doing was searching for someone to tolerate."





	1. Nightfall

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter - all characters and related materials belong to JK Rowling.

Dark was the wizarding world after Voldemort’s victory at the Battle of Hogwarts. It was on a particularly chilly night that Hermione Granger found herself sat on a lumpy couch, dying embers in the fireplace, a worn rug under her feet. Light peered out through a slit in the curtains from the sitting room of 12 Grimmauld Place, which had been reclaimed with much difficulty, and at the cost of too much.

She was sandwiched between the other two of the Golden Trio, shoulders rubbing on the too-small couch, her bushy hair tickling Ron’s neck as she leaned her head on him. It was only moments – mean minutes – from her departure, and the boys were pleading a lost case.

“Let us go with you, Hermione,” Harry said, as he had done all day and throughout dinner. “We’ve always been together, been through so much together-”

“And we’ve been through why the both of you _can’t_ , Harry.” Exasperated, she continued as patiently as she could manage. “Ron needs to stay here. The order has far too few people these days.”

“I can help,” the ginger interjected hurriedly, turning to face her and knocking her head off his shoulder in the process. “It’ll be quicker and safer if I’m there, and they’re my parents as much as yours-”

“ _Quicker and safer_?!” she repeated incredulously, her tone rising in both volume and pitch. “I think I’m more than qualified and capable of handling this by myself, thank you very much-”

“Can’t you just accept help from somebody else for once in your life, Hermione!” Ron snapped, his ears starting to turn red.

“Besides,” she ploughed on, speaking loudly over him, “ _You_ barely know them, _you’ve_ barely spoken to them, and just because we’re dating does not make them yours. They are _my_ parents, Ronald.” She sensed, as she was rattling on, that she had gone a shade too far. Upon seeing his hurt, she felt her heart break, and an apology spilt almost immediately from the mouth that scolded him. “I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to-” The witch sighed and softened her tone; frayed nerves and tired mind, they were all on edge of late.

“This is the best plan we’ve got, Ron. You know it is. It won’t take long; I just need to check – I need to know that they’re…safe." There was a suffocating silence. Nobody was simply _safe_ in times of war, and they were all aware of the fact.

“And _you_ , Harry,” the witch continued, having gathered herself from the worst possible outcomes that raced across her mind during the pause. “The wizarding world can’t risk losing you. This is far too dangerous and you’re all we’ve got left against You-Know-Who. You’re our symbol of hope. You’ve _got_ to stay safe."

It was Harry’s turn to snap. “A symbol of hope everyone thinks is dead? Or a symbol of hope that instead of inspiring, cowers in a house protected by charms? I’m sure that’s a great help, Hermione. The only thing I’m a symbol of is weakness, or failure, or – or-”

“Harry-” she began desperately, turning to Ron for support and turning back just as quickly when she saw him staring resolutely into the fireplace, clearly still stung by their brief argument.

“I can’t stay here knowing that people out there are still fighting, and dying, and you-”

“I won’t die, Harry.” She gave his hand a squeeze, reassuring him as much as she was reassuring herself. A soft knock informed of Mrs Weasley’s presence, her wide frame blocking the dim light from the corridor as the door swung open.

“It’s time, Hermione, dear. Come on now.” The woman made a brisk _follow-me_ motion with an impatient wave of her hand, pressed by a sense of urgency against an evil that seemed to breathe on their windows and prowl outside their doorstep.

Hermione extracted herself from between the boys; they started and made to follow but the witch was faster, and Harry and Ron were flung back onto the couch by a silent binding spell. She had overheard them earlier in the day with a plan to latch onto her when she disapparated, and was determined to keep that from happening. They would follow her to the ends of earth and the edge of hell, but she was heading straight into the heart of the inferno.

 _Was this how Harry felt when he had to hunt Horcruxes?_ Hermione wondered as she turned to face her best friend and lover, dearer than brothers, studying their features more intimately than she had ever cared to in more peaceful times. She brushed Harry’s dark hair, adjusted his slightly askew glasses, smoothed out Ron’s maroon sweater, brushed her fingertips over his lips; misty eyed, shaky hands.

“I’ll send a patronus, I promise,” she whispered. “I...”

Words failed her, failed any promise that she could have kept apart from the one she had just made.

It was on a particularly chilly night that Hermione Granger kissed Harry Potter good bye on the cheek and Ronald Weasley on the forehead, her lips lingering for a second longer against ginger hair, as the boys sat on a lumpy couch in front of her, dying embers in the fireplace, a worn rug under their feet. As glad as she was to have rendered them immobile and mute, for a single word from either of their mouths would surely break her resolve, she could have made do with a “Stay safe, ‘mione.”

And then she was out the door and in the hallway, a piece of parchment with an address hurriedly shoved from trembling hand to trembling hand. She found herself engulfed in a warm crushing hug from Mrs Weasley, and then a rather suffocating embrace from Ginny who had raced down the stairs loudly, flaming haired, bloodshot eyed and red nosed.

Hermione was ushered out the front door, and the last thing she saw was the dim yellow glow from the hanging lamp in the entrance hall before she disapparated with a soft pop.

***

Weathered floorboards, a kitchenette tucked behind a scratched dining table, books stacked on groaning shelves that curved under their weight. The front door opened and closed hastily as a young witch stumbled in.

“ _Lumos_ ,” she whispered, and then, “ _Homenum Revelio._ ”

Her eyes darted around the room, teeth clenched as her scrutinising gaze passed over shadowy corners. Nothing.

Standing alone in a small flat in muggle London, Hermione held her breath as she paced around, her wand at the ready. Although it was protected with a Fidelius Charm (Mrs Weasley was the secret keeper – “ _only one_ ”, she’d said sternly after the mess happened with multiple keepers for 12 Grimmauld Place), she knew better than to let her guard down until she was utterly and completely certain the area was secure.

Pushing open the bedroom door cautiously, she peered in, the small light at the tip of her wand illuminating a bed pushed against the wall, a small closest and a desk that faced the window. Silence. It was not until she had checked the bathroom and dragged the shower curtain open roughly to reveal, to her relief, an empty bathtub did she allow her tense shoulders to droop.

As Hermione made for the door she saw, in the corner of her eye, a movement and, simultaneously, felt the sensation of something grabbing at her ankles. Startled, she cried out loud, instinctively blasting a spell and snatching at the doorknob as she scrambled for the corridor. Breathing heavily, strands of her wild curls tickled by every exhalation, Hermione observed the scene of her fright and slumped to the floor, fatigued in both mind and body.

Constant vigilance, she found, soon after putting the phrase to practise, strained her nerves and breathed nightmares into her sleep, but it kept her alive and that was all you could hope to be during a war. Mirror shards glinted from the tiled bathroom floor, as did Crookshank’s eyes when he padded cautiously to his mistress. Her goddamned reflection and her goddamned cat, she realised, had made her scream like a frightened child and fire an offensive spell.

“How embarrassing,” she muttered, gripping her wand too tightly in her clammy palm. And then she let out a shaky chuckle, because if Harry and Ron were here they would have laughed at the situation.

“Hermione, are you all right?!” Harry would have asked, footsteps thudding as he ran to her.

“Bloody hell, ‘mione. What happened here?” Her chuckles grew louder as she imagined Ron’s bewildered face.

“I’m okay,” she would have replied. “Crookshanks just gave me a bit of a scare.”

“Finally realised how ugly your cat is, have you?” Ron would have prodded the animal with his toe, and she would scoop her pet up and protest while Harry stood with an amused grin as he watched them bicker.

A soft mew brought the girl back to her patch of floor, worn wallpaper, a dark corridor and a mirror waiting to be repaired. The chuckles her reverie had induced subsided, and Hermione surrendered to exhaustion and harrowing silence, her sobs echoing around the empty flat; crying because she had never felt more alone, and crying _because_ she was alone.

***

Ninety miles away from Hermione sat a group of cloaked figures in high backed chairs around a polished wooden table, conversing in hushed, hurried voices. It was a large, grand room, with tall windows that overlooked the gardens and an antique Persian rug that bore the footfall of generations. There was a handsome fireplace set in the wall across them, but nobody had cared to stoke the fire and only dying embers remained. At the far end of the table sat a man who might have, at one time, commanded respect and fear, but his pale complexion and long blonde hair had turned grey, and his proud aristocratic features now sunken and pinched. 

Draco Malfoy found himself watching his father in pained silence, as he often did whenever he was permitted to see him. The Dark Lord had been severe in his punishment and insatiable in his anger after the war was won, in particular towards his mother, who had committed treason the moment she announced Potter’s death. She had not been allowed to live, but she was safe from his wrath in death, and they all still suffered it in life… He was roused from painful recollection when a stifling silence blanketed room, and fear snaked its way around the table.

“My friends,” said a cold voice that grew steadily louder. “My loyal companions, we have been diligent in pruning our community, I trust?”

“Yes, my lord…,” the quiet murmur rippled around the table.

“And what of Potter?” he enquired. With Bellatrix gone, there was a clear absence of eagerness and unreserved adoration for the Dark Lord who, as he made his way slowly to his seat, found his Death Eaters with heads bowed in submissive fear.

“So quiet,” he hissed. “And silence marks guilt.” A shiver ran through the group. “Have I come here to be disappointed again? To find that my most elite, my most _trusted_ friends, to have failed me?”

“Please, my Lord,” said Rookwood, “With the ministry’s resources and our men, we have been searching tirelessly for the boy-”

“And found nothing.” Voldemort concluded in an icy tone, and Rookwood lowered his head in shame. “We have won the war, but the boy is still _alive._ I need him _dead_ – ” the group flinched “ – and all I see before me are complacent fools, delirious on past victories and diseased in idleness. Perhaps a reminder of what happens to those that fail…repeatedly…” His long, spider-like fingers reached for his wand and Lucius whimpered softly, trembling in his own house.

“My Lord.” The table turned towards the clear voice. It belonged to Theodore Nott, a bony, curly-haired Slytherin who, being a pure-blooded son of a Death Eater was deemed eligible to serve as a playmate for Draco in their youth. He continued swiftly. “We may not have Potter, but we have located somebody else – we have Granger’s parents.”

“Granger…” Voldemort repeated the name, deep in thought. “Illuminate me, Nott, what value does a Mudblood and her muggle parents offer us? We have killed and we have tortured what remains of the Order. Nothing can convince Potter to come out from hiding. I’m afraid our little friend is no longer the hero Dumbledore posed him to be…”

“Potter loves her,” Theodore said simply, and Voldemort gave a large sigh of mock understanding.

“Oh, _love_. Yes, I see how terrifying it is now…Dumbledore believed in it, and Severus perished because of it. And your mother, Draco, was so full of love she _lied_ and _betrayed_ … _crucio_!”

Pain. The boy watched as his father writhed in his seat, his screams reverberating around the room, crashing in his ears. It was a familiar scene these days, but Draco Malfoy still felt the chill creep through the windows and settle in his bones.

***

After suffering heavy losses after the war, the Dark Lord had turned his attention to the youths in Slytherin in search of replacements for his fallen Death Eaters. Those who had yet to complete their schooling did so under his twisted regime at Hogwarts, learning prejudice and studying injustice, while those who were of age were expected to follow and serve his regime immediately. Sat on two velvet chaise lounges around a small, ornate fireplace were four such young people, comprising of two witches and two wizards.  

“Well? What happened in there?” A pug-faced girl leaned forward, her face shining with anticipation. Meetings these days were shrouded in such secrecy, and allowed so few of the Dark Lord’s followers, that they often became a particularly enticing source of gossip. “Go on, tell us, Theodore, we’re dying to know, and we’ve been waiting here forever.” She turned to her slender, golden-haired companion for affirmation. “Haven’t we, Daphne?”

Daphne Greengrass clearly did not share in her friends’ excitement, for she was perched on her seat so stiffly one might have thought she had the _Immobulus_ charm cast on her. Curiosity, however, loosened her pursed lips and, turning to the boy, asked, “Did you tell him about Granger’s parents?”

“I did.”

“And? Did the Dark Lord say anything?”

“Not much.”

“What do you mean by ‘not much’? Was he – was he pleased?”

Theodore sighed. “What do you want the Dark Lord to say? ‘Well done, Theo, fantastic work. Here’s a chocolate frog. Run along now and I’ll read you a bedtime story later.’ The Dark Lord wants Potter, so until we can use the mudblood’s parents to find the bespectacled nuisance somehow, no, Daphne. He was not _pleased_.”

“We heard screaming,” said the pug-faced girl breathlessly. “Who was it? Although I can probably guess…” She glanced, with a sneering cruelness, at the pale faced and pale haired boy across her. “Was it your _daddy_ , Draco?”

“Oh, stop it, Pansy,” snapped Daphne, but the damage was done. The chaise lounge creaked as Draco stood abruptly, wand clenched in white knuckles, aiming curse after curse at Pansy Parkinson, who shrieked and drew her own wand. Daphne cried desperately, “Stop! _Stop!_ ” while Theodore cast a protective charm, deciding that waiting it out was better than getting involved.

“You dare-“, breathed Malfoy heavily as he flung every offensive spell he could remember at the squealing girl. “You insult my family – you _dare_ – my father is –” But Pansy had reached the door, and though she had a deep cut on her arm and singed hair, she was largely unharmed. She scrabbled at the handle and disappeared into the hallway, leaving her companions in a room with smouldering wallpaper and an angry portrait that waved his fists and shouted obscenities. 

“Thank you for your help, Theodore,” Daphne said dryly.

The boy shrugged. “Draco didn’t need it. Besides, you get what you sow. Pansy deserved that.” 

“She deserved _that_? She could have been seriously injured, having curses thrown like that-”

“She should’ve kept her mouth shut then, shouldn’t she-”

Draco closed the door on their bickering and made his way to his room, head aching and hands shaking. After the war, the Malfoys, stripped of their influence and status amongst the Death Eaters, found many of their friendships and alliances to have been built on what was lost. Their reputation had kept many threats at bay, but now they were exposed to those they had wronged, and those who had been jealous of their wealth and power.

For Theodore he was grateful, as the boy proved to be a steadfast, loyal friend, and though difficult to understand at times, had never mistreated him. Daphne was a girl of quick temper and moderate sensibility; ruthless if need be but did not indulge in unnecessary sadism. But _Pansy_ , Draco thought bitterly, _sweet, stupid, hateful adoring Pansy_ , had abandoned her high regard of him when she learnt of their family’s disgrace, and witnessed them slighted in their own home. He who she used to worship!

 _She didn’t worship_ you, _you stupid idiot_ , a nasty voice said inside his head. _She only loved the glamorous prestige of the Malfoy name, and the contents of your family vault. You have nothing now. You’re not Mommy’s golden boy or Daddy’s heir...you’re just Draco Malfoy, and what is there to love about_ him _?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for making it to the end to this little ramble. 
> 
> It's been years since I've written fanfiction (flashback to the cringey fic I wrote back in my high school days) so I really hope this chapter was enjoyable.  
> I've certainly enjoyed writing it! 
> 
> Feel free to leave feedback - I'd super appreciate it! 
> 
> Until next time,  
> MistyPaperMoon


	2. Breakfast

Pearly grey morning filtered into a small bedroom, its feeble light touching the witch sprawled over her desk, a quill by her hand, notes under her cheek. An old, stretched maroon sweater was draped over her chair, fuzzed on the underside of the sleeves after years of being rubbed against parchment. She jolted awake, snatching her clock in panic.

_Of course I’m early_ , Hermione thought bitterly, _two-hours-ahead-of-the-alarm early_. 

“Good morning, Crookshanks,” she cooed as the ginger cat snaked around her ankles and jumped into her lap. Being in a muggle neighbourhood was a welcome change, for though the general consensus among the non-magic population was that troubling attacks (in the form of terrorists, inept politicians and terrible weather) was a cause for worry, they remained largely unaware to the magnitude and severity of Lord Voldemort’s reign, and there was solace to be found in ignorance. To see open coffee shops and pedestrians on the streets was a far cry from the state of Diagon Alley.

Clutching the cat to her chest, she made her way to the kitchenette. Coffee, and then breakfast, and then more coffee would be what she needed. It was a charming flat, she decided, when viewed with a steady mind, and although it was a bit small and cramped she supposed it was rather cosy that way. Her affection for the place was short-lived, however, when she discovered the cupboards to be empty.

“It’s not stocked!” she exclaimed, before recovering from her surprise with a smack to her head. “Of course it isn’t, you idiot. What did you expect, a five-star hotel?”

Hermione reached for a small knapsack on the dining table she had brought along last night. She hadn’t packed any food, she was sure of it, but there was no harm in double-checking. As she rifled through, she felt books, and potion ingredients, a small cauldron, spare robes and muggle clothing…her fingers brushed against a paper bag and she pulled it out, confused. It was filled with cauldron cakes, pumpkin pasties and sweets. Ron must have stuffed it into the knapsack without her noticing, fully expecting to have disapparated with her last night.

Her breakfast was sweet, and just a little bit salty.

*** 

Miserable were the residents at 12 Grimmauld Place. Mrs Weasley had left in a hurry after cooking up breakfast, presumably on an errand for the Order. Ron picked at his breakfast gloomily and Ginny sat with her arms crossed, her eyes following Harry who was pacing anxiously around the kitchen.

“Sit down and have some food, Harry, before it gets cold.”

“I’m not hungry.” Harry stopped pacing and turned to the Weasleys sat in front of him. “She said ‘ _I’ll send a patronus, I promise._ ’ Where is it? Why hasn’t she sent one yet? Something must have happened to her –”

There was a clatter as the fork fell from Ron’s hand, his face turning white. “You think so? That something happened to Hermione?” 

“Well, why else hasn’t she sent her patronus then? Maybe – maybe she was ambushed, or taken hostage-”

“I should’ve gone with her and protected her,” Ron said with a shake of his head. “And then maybe she wouldn’t be…wouldn’t be…”

“Ginny,” Harry said hurriedly. “We need to find your mother and ask her for Hermione’s address. Ron, we need to pack our bags-”

“Stop,” said Ginny. “Both of you need to _stop_.” From her stern expression to the disapproving hands on her hips, the girl carried such resemblance to Mrs Weasley that the boys quieted and stilled under her glare. “She’s the most clever out of any of us, and we all know she’s bloody brilliant. Hermione is strong. She doesn’t always _need_ the both of you being her knights in shining armour, you know. Why don’t you two have a bit of faith in her instead of-”

She was cut short by a sleek, silvery otter that sailed through the window and spoke in Hermione’s voice.

“ _I’m safe. Don’t worry._ ”

Then it was gone, disappearing like smoke in the wind. The three recipients of the message remained frozen until a shaky laugh from Ron released them, and there was a collective sigh of relief. Suddenly they were ravenous, and cold toast had never tasted better.

It was in this very room just a fortnight ago that Hermione had dashed, bushy hair flying behind her, and announced she was she was going to Australia.

“Bloody hell, Hermione!” Ron had jumped at her violent entrance and splashed soup all over his shirt. “What’re you going on about, a bloody holiday in the middle of a war?”

“I’m not going on holiday, Ron,” her voice reaching a familiar hysterical note they often heard during exam periods. “It’s my parents – they’re not on the map – I need to go –” She shook her head, unable to continue, and Ginny wrapped a sympathetic arm around her trembling shoulders.

“Slow down,” Harry said. Getting up from his seat and moving over to where she stood blinking back tears, he gently took the piece her parchment she was clutching. “Is this the map? What’s happened to your mum and dad?”

“I don’t know where they are,” she’d replied shakily. “I’ve made a map, my own map. I-I’ve studied the Marauder’s map, and it’s complicated magic – genius really – but I’ve managed to understand the spells. I’ve tweaked it, so instead of showing individuals in a defined area, it shows my parents, just them, in an undefined place. It’s better anyway since nobody would know where they are if my map got stolen – not that it’d happen, I’ve protected it quite well, only I know the password and mechanisms. I just needed their footprints. I just needed to know that they’re safe, _alive_ , but – it’s blank – ”    

She’d been pulled into a hug from Harry who, in that moment, understood Hermione better than anybody else in the room, and the tears she’d been holding back soaked his shoulder.

He didn’t tell her that everything would be fine, that her parents were alive, that her map was surely just malfunctioning and there was nothing to worry about. They simply stood holding each other, her hand in Ron’s, because sometimes there were no words.

***

Under Voldemort’s reign, the Ministry of Magic was working day and night to prosecute muggle-borns, conducting unjust hearings in dungeons under the guise of wizard community protection. The plan to locate her parents was fairly simple, on paper.

Hermione was to infiltrate the Ministry under the disguise of Henrietta Grain, a half-blood Ravenclaw in Ginny’s year who had kept to herself at Hogwarts, and never been confirmed dead or alive after the Battle of Hogwarts, and find records at the Muggle-born Registration Commission offices, where information of her and her parents would likely be kept. 

A senior position, preferably on the first or second levels of the Ministry, would have made information gathering far quicker and more dangerous, but they were restricted to Voldemort’s inner circle and previously influential officials under the Imperius Curse. She had been worried about finding a job (" _What if I’m under-qualified?"_ ), but her concerns were unfounded, for the process was surprisingly smooth.

“Look, Hermione!” Ron had said one evening, pointing excitedly at a small column in the Daily Prophet. Although the publication printed nothing but propaganda these days, it was the best place to look for ministry jobs. “There’s an opening for a post in House-Elf Relocations! It’s perfect for you! You could use your experience with SPEW –”

“Har, har, very funny,” she’d retorted, pulling the paper towards her. After scanning the job description, she found Ron to be, quite miraculously, right.

_HIRING a capable and skilled assistant to the  
_ _Head of House-Elf Relocations_

_Duties will include organising paperwork, letters, and_  
_Providing assistance to the Head of the office.  
_ _All interested applicants to submit their applications by ---, xxxx_

It sounded like a dull and unambitious job, and it was exactly what she needed. A small job within the Ministry would allow her to keep a low profile, and once she was in she would have the opportunity to visit other departments. The paperwork was sent and a congratulatory reply received three days after for Miss Henrietta Grain, with instructions and formalities for her new position.

Her footsteps echoed around the atrium, leather soles tap-tap-tapping smartly on polished dark wood along with hundreds others as she jostled through, and was jostled by, the morning rush.

Hermione had spent the morning transfiguring her face. Ginny had described Henrietta Grain vaguely when they were testing out the look back in Grimmauld Place – “ _It’s close enough, Hermione. She looked something like that…nobody really noticed her, you know. I don’t even think she had any friends_ ” – and after recalling how she had practically been unrecognisable at first glance during their Fourth Year Yule Ball, decided to apply liberal amounts of Sleekeazy’s to her hair. The thought of having to do this every day before work made her think painfully of Tonks, who would have laughed and shown her off Metamorphic talents while saying, “Not too difficult, is it?”

The hall felt rather cold, and was even gloomier than Hermione remembered. Apart from the sound of rapid footsteps there was no chatter to be heard, for everybody moved about with downturned faces and hunched backs. Hermione could not help remembering the time she was here last as Mafalda Hopkirk and regretted the recollection instantly, for she felt the full force of Harry and Ron’s absence and her loneliness amplified.   

_Get it together, Hermione_ , she told herself, realising her pace had slowed and was quickly becoming disheartened. _Focus_. She straightened her collar and powered towards the lift, her shoulders squared, her chin up. She was Hermione Jean Granger, and she would find a way to obtain what she came for.  

***

A plaque hung slightly lopsided on a tired looking door that said: _Office for House-Elf Relocation_. Hermione rapped her knuckles on the wood, and receiving no answer, knocked again. She waited for a moment before tugging it open with a small groan; it was heavier than expected.

“Excuse me…” Stepping in cautiously, she entered a small, dusty room. It was furnished with two overflowing cluttered wooden desks, one of which had a faded brass nameplate etched with the words: _Head of House-Elf Relocation_ and a steaming cup of tea, the owner of which must have stepped out. There was a small window on one side of the room (the Magical Maintenance Department had decided on smog that day), and bookshelves crammed with paperwork on the other. She made her way to the desk in front of the window, and jumped when the door opened suddenly and roughly.

“Good morning,” she said hurriedly as she spun around. “I’m starting today. My name is He-”

She stopped short, her breath hitching and her blood running cold, panic settling in the pit of her stomach. It was fear and anger, clammy hands and shaky knees all at once.

“Malfo – _Mr_ Malfoy.” _Breathe, Hermione_ , she thought. _He won’t recognise you._

Dressed in crisp robes, Draco Malfoy seemed oddly confined in the room and reminded Hermione of the scene in Alice in Wonderland when Alice ate the cakes that made her grow very large. His blonde head seemed to brush the ceiling, and as he walked to his desk the path of carpeted ground not buried under paper seemed too narrow. It was no wonder he looked so out of place.

Here was a man born into the lap of luxury and grown up without want or need, for he had the very best handed to him alongside his silver spoon. He belonged in grand halls with arching windows and lofty ceilings; he had been bred into aristocracy and he had grown into it, so to have a Malfoy heading the office during Voldemort’s reign, Hermione thought, could only mean that the family had finally, truly, fallen from favour, useful to Voldemort only in wealth, their useless heir kept in a dusty office otherwise as humiliation, an inside joke amongst the Death Eaters.

There was almost pity in the way she regarded him, but she remembered Fred, and Tonks, and Remus, and Sirius…, and in that moment the witch loathed him, loathed how he still stood with the enemy, loathed the way he sat with that smarmy look on his face. Loathed him.

It must have shown, for his eyes hardened and he asked testily, “Is there a problem, Miss–?”

“No,” she replied, a little too quickly and a little too harshly to be convincing. She took a deep breath and tried again. “No, I-I’m just a little nervous. Um, it’s Grain. Henrietta Grain.”

He nodded dismissively, then “Sit down and get to work”, and lapsed into silence. Hermione took her seat and picked up the folder nearest to her, finding a report detailing a house-elf in need of a new owner after the wizard he had worked for passed away in the war. She put it down and looked up.

“You haven’t told me what to do,” she said.

His head jerked in response, as though irritated she had spoken, and she was quite sure she heard him tut. He waved his wand and the mountain of paperwork on her desk rose and shifted into neat little blocks, before slamming down in a cloud of dust.

“Work through those first,” Malfoy said, pointing to the stack on her right. It was apparent he considered this to be instructive enough, for he turned back to his own folder and fell silent.

Slightly annoyed, Hermione spoke again.

“But what am I supposed to _do_ with them? Should I read them and make notes? Do I organise them?” 

“For god’s sake, Grain!” He snapped, before continuing in a mocking tone. “Are you a child? Must I hold your hand and teach you how to do your job? Have you any idea what department you’re in, or what it does? I thought we were hiring somebody _capable_ ,” he sneered, “and instead I get you.”

“The Office for House-Elf Relocation,” Hermione began hotly, for she was not to have her intelligence questioned or insulted in such a manner, “was opened in 1750, when Clause 73 called for the ‘ _concealment, care, and control of all magical beasts, beings and spirits_ ’–”

“Oh, shut up. So you’re good at memorising ministry pamphlets. That’s excellent.” He cut across her speech, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just…stop talking. You’re giving me a headache. Look, I’ll make it simple.”

He held out his left hand. “House-elves that need employment.”

He held out his right hand. “Wizards and witches that are employing.”

He clapped his hands together, the sharp sound piercing through the room. “And this is our job. We play matchmaker and put the two together. That’s it. If making notes and organising is going to help you do your job, then do it. I don’t care. Do you think you can manage, Grain, or will you need more instructions?”

_Don’t argue back,_ she thought, swallowing a biting retort. _Keep a low profile. Find your parents._

“I can manage,” Hermione replied stiffly, her pride stinging. Sitting across each other in a small, dusty office, the two worked in silence until the evening, quills scratching, parchment shuffling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> Thank you for reading Chapter Two - I hope this was all right (: 
> 
> I'll be back with the next chapter (hopefully soon~ I'm a terrible procrastinator but I'll do my best aha!)  
> Feel free to leave a comment/feedback and
> 
> Until next time,  
> MistyPaperMoon


	3. After Dinner Activities

 Pansy had been summoned just after dinner to the dungeons. Thinking it was simply prisoner duty and slightly disappointed she was missing a night of goading Draco over his Ministry desk job, she made her way down the stone steps, stopping short when she saw the black cloak, the ashen skin, the skeletal frame.

“Ah, my dear Pansy. So kind of you to join me.” A spider-like hand beckoned her closer. “Come closer, child. Your father has served me well.” 

“Thank you, my Lord,” whispered Pansy. She was trembling in her silk robes, frozen in fear of the Lord she served, for she had never been alone with him, never been this close to him. His cold gaze was always focused on somebody else, and others with heavier responsibilities had shielded her from his wrath.

“He has spoken about you, praised you…what a charming father. Did _you_ trace the Mudblood’s parents?”

She shook her head timidly, her black bob swaying with the movement. “We found them together,” she said in a small voice, wondering if this was the right answer, praying it was. Perhaps there wasn’t a right answer at all. “Theodore, and Draco, and Daphne and me.” 

“Team work,” the Dark Lord sneered. “Between affectionate friends. How touching.” He turned away and unlocked the door to the dungeons with a prod of his wand, and with the next step melted into the gloom. Pansy followed quickly, her shoes tapping on what sounded like wet stone.

Suddenly the torches in their rusty holders came to life, illuminating a low-ceilinged stone room and a shivering, terrified couple with wide, fearful eyes.

“These are the Mudblood’s parents?”

Since they had been brought into the manor a fortnight ago, this was Pansy’s first time looking at them properly. Snatchers had carried out the abducting, and once they’d been locked away in the dungeon she’d never cared to enter it. She had spent prisoner duty in a plush chair on top of the stairs, a silencing charm cast at the door, a magazine in her lap.

Pansy stared at the couple for the first time and saw Hermione Granger in the curve of a nose, the brown in an eye…

“Yes, my Lord,” she whispered.

“Please,” the woman sobbed, clutching her husband desperately. “Please let us go. We don’t know what you’re talking about…we don’t know anybody named Hermione, we don’t know any Grangers, we’ve never had a daughter…”

“There must be some kind of mistake,” the man said forcefully, supporting his wife. “You’ve got the wrong people.”

The Dark Lord turned to Pansy slowly; the room seemed to grow colder than ever.

“These muggles say they’re not what we think they are, Pansy. They say there has been a mistake. Mistakes,” he hissed, “must be rectified. What was the mistake here? Have I been lied to by these muggles, or by my faithful Death Eaters?”

“P-please, my Lord,” Pansy stammered. “We think it was a m-memory charm.”

“And _why_ has it not been removed? Are none of you capable of removing a simple spell such as this?” 

“Draco and Theodore have been trying, my Lord, but it – it’s quite strong. The magic to remove it is a-advanced…”

“If you can’t remove it, then you should simply break it. _Crucio_!” 

An ear-splitting scream echoed around the room. Pansy watched in horror as the woman lay twitching, as her husband cradled her head to keep it from the cold stone floor, as he shouted “ _Monica! Monica – please stop this, please, I’m begging you…_ ”

Then it was over, and Pansy realised with a jolt how much she was shaking, how haggard her breathing had become. She had been raised to despise Mudbloods and to think muggles beneath her, to treat them as vile, stupid creatures, but seeing them in front of her pleading for their lives was very different from hearing about them in the comforts of her family manor.

“You see?” The Dark Lord stood observing the pain in front of him as though it were nothing more than a common, mediocre exhibit. “This is how it should be. Now, let me see you try…” 

Slowly, Pansy raised her wand. _It’s them or me_ , she thought, a sickening feeling pooling in her stomach. _It’s them or me. It’s them or me._

_“C-crucio!”_ The man howled in pain but recovered quite quickly, panting as he bent protectively over his wife.

“Again! Try again, girl!” The Dark Lords’ screams sounded so far away. All she could hear was the pounding of her heart, her unsteady breath, the mantra in her head… _it’s them or me; it’s them or me…_

“ _Crucio!”_ she cried, gripping her wand so tightly her hand felt numb. “ _Crucio! Crucio!”_

She wasn’t sure how many times she had cast the Unforgivable Curse. All she knew was _she_ had remained the one standing, _she_ had emerged victorious, _she_ was not writhing on the ground. _She_ wasn’t the muggles. _She_ was safe.  

“Good, very good,” she heard the Dark Lord say. “You shall be in charge of this, Pansy. Prove yourself to me. Prove your loyalty. Do not _fail_.” 

“Yes, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord…”

Her legs shook as she walked up the stone steps, staring determinedly ahead, for if she turned around she was sure the gaping darkness behind the barred door would ensnare her. The dungeon would swallow her whole.

But as she reached the hallway and felt carpeted floor under her shoes, the fear turned to detached numbness. She stood alone; the oak panels were illuminated by a soft, warm glow, portraits snored gently inside their frames, and Pansy wondered how a place so cold could be just beneath her feet. Now calmer than she had been before, her mind began to turn over the events that had unfolded, and instantly she was back in the damp room, screams echoing in her ears. 

_I did that to them,_ Pansy thought shakily. _I hurt them._

_But they were just muggles,_ a small voice said in the back of her mind. _And Father and Mother always said they were lesser. You didn’t have a choice back there, so it’s not really your fault. It’s_ theirs _, if anything, for being so weak. They couldn’t defend themselves, even if you’d given them a wand. But_ you’re _not weak. You’re a Pure-blood witch. You’re different from_ them.

_That’s right,_ she thought. _It wasn’t my fault._

She imagined being in the Dark Lords’ favour, to be safe from his wrath. She envisioned all the other Pure-bloods fawning over her as she had once done around Draco. This was her chance to be something, to prove her worth, to bring fame and glory to her family name… _I deserve this_ , she thought. All doubt was banished as the triumphant visions played out in her head, and with every step Pansy reclaimed her sense of self-importance. 

*** 

Hermione hurried along carpeted corridors, clutching her wand inside a pocket in her robes. It had been hours since Malfoy left the office, while she had stayed behind on the pretence of doing some overtime work. Left alone in the dusty office, she checked and rechecked her notes obsessively until the sun set in the enchanted window.

She made her way to the lifts and jabbed the little button impatiently, regretting she had not taken up on Harry’s offer to take his Invisibility Cloak (“ _You keep it, Harry, just in case_ ”). Luckily, the corridor was deserted and many doors had darkened glass-panels, indicating most personnel had gone home for the day.

There was a ping as the lift arrived. Its doors slid open to a thankfully empty box and a cool voice announced, “ _Level four: the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Crea_ -”

“Yes, fine,” Hermione muttered, stepping in and turning the controller with unnecessary force to Level ten, where the offices and courtrooms for the Muggle-born Registration Commission were located.

To her horror, a sharp buzz sounded and the cool voice spoke again.

“ _Please provide your Ministry Identity Card for access to Level ten.”_

Cautiously, she took out her card and looked around, unsure what to do. A little tray next to the controller slid out and she dropped her card in it, holding her breath. The result was immediate.

“ _Access denied. Please provide your permit. Failure to do so will result in immediate incarceration.”_

In a panic, Hermione snatched her card from the tray and dodged out of the lift, breathing heavily. This was obviously a new system, and most undesirable. Deciding it was better to head home for the night and draw up a new plan, she rushed back to the office and gathered her things, fastening a cloak over her robes. She turned off the lights and made to leave, freezing as the sound of harsh voices travelled down the corridor and through the office door.

Heart thundering and wand in a tightly clenched fist, she ducked behind her desk and held her breath as the voices grew louder. 

“Let’s just go back,” said a man, his voice reedy and thin. “There ain’t nobody here.”

“S _omebody_ was tampering with them lifts,” his companion replied gruffly. “We find troublemakers, we get a reward.”

“I know,” said the first man. “But I got the cards waitin’ and my hand is gonna win more galleons than checking all these bloody offices hunting down a ‘ _somebody’._ It’s probably some idiot who forgot their permit. We got some o’ those last week.”

“And what if it isn’t?” His companion sneered, their voices growing softer as they passed the door and continued down the hall.

Deciding this was her chance to make a run for it, she opened the door and peeked out. The corridor was empty. Casting a quick _Muffliato_ behind her, she dashed to the lift again and saw to her great relief it stood with its doors open as though waiting. She hurried in gratefully, this time spinning the controller to Level eight.

“ _Level eight: Atrium_ ,” said the cool voice, the doors sliding to a close. As the lift jerked sideways, her mind started working furiously. If Level ten was restricted, she was sure Level one, where the Minister of Magic worked, and Level two, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, must be restricted too. The only people who had access would only be Voldemort’s inner circle and officials under the Imperius Curse.

_There must be hundreds of them_ , she thought with a shiver. Were they all forced against their will? Or did they work willingly, drafting prejudiced laws and passing cruel sentences? The doors slid open and Hermione stepped out into an empty Atrium, looking significantly larger than it had in the morning.

Hurrying across the polished wood, she stepped into a gilded fireplace and emerged, slightly dizzy, in the front seat of a cab (low-level employees were now forced to get to work every morning by entering a six seater cab, with each seat serving as a portal to the Ministry and activated when the seatbelt was buckled).

Opening the car door, she exited and moved briskly through several streets, some crowded, some deserted. After making sure she wasn’t being followed, she ducked into a dark alley and Disapparated with a small pop.

***

Theodore Nott was stretched out on a leather loveseat, a book held loosely in his hands, his eyes navigating the words in the pages. Night had fallen outside the stately windows, and in front of him a small marble fireplace was lit. Around the walls were bookshelves that stretched towards the domed wooden ceiling, housing endless leather-bound volumes. This was his favourite room in the Malfoy Manor, for reasons of its’ being quiet and rarely visited.

The door creaked open and a young man strode in, his poise and manner indicating a familiarity with the place and its' current inhabitant.

“Hey,” Theodore said, looking up from his book at the intruder of his privacy.

“I thought you’d be in here,” said Draco. “How long are you lot going to hang around my house?”

“As long as the Dark Lord stays here for all those meetings, I suppose.”

Draco flung himself into an armchair opposite his friend and sighed deeply. Theodore took this as permission to ask, and so began his enquiry.

“How was work?”

“Tedious.”

“Most things are these days.”

“We had a new hire.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. An absolutely insufferable –“

“What’s this? Are you talking about yourself, Draco?” A new voice had joined in on the conversation, and the boys looked up to see Daphne walking towards them. “ _Move over_ , Theodore,” she said, pushing his legs off the seat and settling down in it.

“Draco was telling me about a new hire in his office before you barged in,” Theodore said, closing his book and hoisting himself more comfortably up.

“Oh, please continue then,” she said, turning to the pale blonde who looked slightly annoyed at the interruption. “Don’t mind me.”

“As I was saying, this new hire is an insufferable–”

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Daphne asked, cutting across him.

“A girl,” Draco replied impatiently. “And –” 

“Was she pretty?” Daphne interjected again.

“Merlin! Who cares if she was pretty or not?” Draco cried, exasperated.

“All right, all right! There’s no need to get your wand in a knot.” She sunk into her seat and huffed, but said no more.

Draco reached for the crystal decanter on the coffee table in front of them. The room was silent, save some gentle clinking as he poured himself a glass of whiskey. He took a gulp and felt the liquid sear his throat.

“ _As_ I was saying, the new girl is infuriating. She’s got this pretentious, bookish attitude that makes you want to throw a few good hexes at her. When I left this evening she said” – he raised his pitch to a mocking, girlish tone – “’ _I think I’ll stay behind and study a few more old cases_.’ Working overtime! On her first day! What a suck-up. She’d started reciting the ministry pamphlet too…I bet she’d finish the entire thing if I'd let her.”

Theodore laughed at the absurdity. “ _Reciting the ministry pamphlet_? She sounds fascinating.”

“Well, she isn’t. She’s a pain in the arse. You know who she reminded me of?” Draco said thoughtfully, looking into his glass, speaking almost to himself. “Granger.” 

“Granger was quite pretty,” said Daphne.

“I’m not talking about her face, you twit,” snarled Draco, losing all capacity for a discussion on pretty girls. He would have indulged in that kind of nonsense in the past, but these days he had more important matters that wanted his attention.

Sensing she was no longer welcome, Daphne stood up and started making her way to the door.

As she passed by the blonde, she gave his tense shoulder a light squeeze and said, “I didn’t mean to upset you.” He nodded to show he heard her, then the pressure was gone and the door creaked as she slipped into the hallway.

“She’s just worried about you,” said Theodore sagely, stretching out again over the loveseat. “The Dark Lord says love is a weakness and a distraction but I don’t think that’s true. I think we all need something to love in order to truly _live_. That’s what makes life worthwhile, after all. It was Quidditch for you back at Hogwarts– ”

Draco opened his mouth to protest and his curly-haired companion shook his head. “No no, you know it’s true. You loved that sport. And after a while your love turned to your family…but right now you have nothing, and that’s why Daphne is worried. I suppose she thought a pretty girl might solve it but…” He trailed off into pensive silence.

“What about you then?” Draco asked, realising with rising discomfort that he had never discussed this sort of thing with anybody before. “Do you have something? Are you ‘ _truly living’_?”

“Well,” Theodore said lightly. “I’m alive.” He opened up his book and left Draco to stare into the fire, whiskey glass in hand, contemplating. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! 
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed Chapter Three!  
> I struggle to think of chapter names...sorry if they're kind of weird.  
> This one seemed like it would contain smut. Maybe I just have a dirty mind. 
> 
> Until next time,  
> MistyPaperMoon


	4. Dusting

Rather unexpectedly, Draco had begun a habit of going to work early. Although he had never been the tardy sort, even at Hogwarts, he was never an early riser either. However, he quickly found perks to arriving at the Ministry an hour ahead of the morning rush - there was less jostling, for one, and a lot less staring.

This morning he was two hours ahead of his normal schedule. Sleep was a rare visitor these days. He normally managed to coax slumber into his bed with a nightly cocktail of whiskey and a vial of Sleeping Draught, but last night’s conversation with Theodore remained stubbornly on the forefront of his subconscious. He had lay awake until the darkness lifted and the sky lightened and, deciding his quest for sleep to be futile, headed to work early.

As Draco strode across the Atrium, he was drawn into a sudden rumination of his childhood and remembered strutting across the polished wood behind his father whenever they visited “for business”, relishing the spotlight and feeling the gaze of jealousy and admiration upon the pair of them. Now and then an important looking witch or wizard would stop by to speak with the elder Malfoy, hushed voices and wary glances. Draco’s favourite part was when the conversation ended. 

“My son,” Lucius would say carelessly, gesturing to the boy with a nonchalant wave of his hand, and Draco would stand a little taller, hold his chin up a little higher. 

“What a handsome boy!” they’d exclaim. “He looks just like you, and he’ll grow up to be a promising heir, no doubt, to continue the esteemed Malfoy lineage.”

“We’ll see,” his father would reply, always coldly, and always with a small hint of pride. 

Draco found himself in front of the office, having made his way there mindlessly while musing over his past. He frowned when a clatter sounded behind the doors and pulled his wand out instinctively. Pushing open the door cautiously, he stepped into the room and was greeted with a scene of chaos and a cloud of dust. Documents were slotting themselves into folders, and folders filing themselves neatly into boxes. Books emerged from the clutter and slid onto the large bookcase behind Draco’s desk, drawers had their contents tipped onto the carpeted floor to be resorted. Orchestrating it all was his new assistant, who stood in the middle of the room with a handkerchief wrapped around her nose and mouth.

He stalked towards her angrily, inhaling a large amount of dust when he opened his mouth to shout at her. 

“W-what’s all this mess?” he finally managed to choke out, eyes watering from coughing.

The witch ignored him, continuing to direct the chaos with her wand. Draco felt the dust tickling his nostrils and a headache forming as the dizzying flurry of action whirled around him. It was all too much for a man who hadn’t had a wink of sleep.

“ _Finite!_ ” he snarled, slashing his wand through the air, and the room stilled. “I’m going to ask you one more time, Grain. What’s this mess doing in my office?”

She pulled her handkerchief down and replied calmly, “I’m cleaning. If you don’t mind, I’m going to finish up.” Turning away, she raised her wand again. 

“I will hex you if you do,” he snapped, his head pounding. “ _Why_ on earth are you cleaning? Were you murdered last night and then possessed by the spirit of a house-elf? Unless I’m mistaken, this is the office for House-Elf Relocation, not House-Elf Reincarnation. You were not hired to clean, you were-” 

“‘ _If making notes and organising is going to help you do your job, then do it.’”_

Draco stared blankly. “What?”

“That’s what you told me,” she said in an annoying, matter-of-fact sort of way. “That if “ _making notes and organising_ ” is going to help me do my job, I should go ahead and do it. I work best in a clean and organised environment, _sir_.”

“ _This_ is your idea of clean, is it?” He gestured around the half-tidied mess, dust swirling thickly in the light coming in through the window (the Magical Maintenance Department had decided on clear, pleasant weather that day).

“It _would_ be clean by now if you had let me finish,” she countered. “Besides, I didn’t think you would be arriving so early in the morning.” She glanced at him questioningly, suspiciously, and Draco turned away.

“Be done in ten minutes,” he said shortly, slamming the door behind him.

***

Hermione was finished in five. Running her wand along the books now stacked neatly on the bookshelf, she siphoned off the remaining traces of dirt with a particularly handy cleaning charm she had read in one of Mrs Weasley’s books for household spells. Turning around, she let out a small sigh of satisfaction and admired her handiwork.

The room, though still small and shabby, was now spotless. Paperwork that had previously been heaped into staggering piles was now tucked away into boxes, and the surfaces of their desks free from old memos that fluttered weakly. Cleared of books, loose pieces of parchment and a thick layer of grime and dust, the carpet was revealed to be a pleasant, deep purple dotted with small golden stars. Hermione’s eyes fell on the desk in front of her. There was a moment’s hesitation and a quick look at the door before she knelt down quickly and tugged on the drawer.

After learning about the new security system last night, she had stayed awake mulling over the problem, rifling through pages with unnecessary force, consulting her books and wishing they were Harry and Ron instead.

“I need a Ministry Identity Card of somebody who has access _or_ I’ve got to get a permit…how on earth am I supposed to get a hold of either one of those? Maybe I could try stupefying the mechanisms…no, that would definitely alert someone. I _could_ try to get a permit, but House-elf Relocation doesn’t have any business near the Muggle-born Registration Commission. It’d be suspicious if I didn’t have a proper reason,” she’d said, frustrated. 

The sun had risen before she even noticed, and as its weak rays touched the edge of her desk her thoughts turned to the small office she would be confined to in just a few hours.

“I can’t believe I’ve got to do all this while stuck with Malfoy.” Miserably, Hermione had poured herself a cup of coffee, and suddenly it clicked. “Malfoy!” she’d shouted his name in ungodly excitement. 

If she was to hunt down senior Ministry officials who _possibly_ had clearance, she might as well start with Draco Malfoy, and on her way to the office constructed a quick plan to search Malfoy’s desk under the guise of cleaning the room, should anybody walk in unannounced.

The drawer was, to Hermione’s dismay, locked. She noticed it remained resolutely in place when her cleaning charm turned out the others, which was the only confirmation she needed to be sure that it contained items of importance – items like Malfoy’s Ministry Identity Card or permit papers.

“ _Alohomora_!” She had suspected the spell wouldn’t work, but was disappointed nonetheless when the drawer refused to budge. It was fitted with a small, dull brass circular keyhole, but before she could examine any further the door opened and Draco Malfoy stepped in, holding a steaming mug of tea.

She snapped upright and watched as he looked around, anticipating a sneering comment and was instead surprised to see his disgruntled features smoothen into mild approval.

He sniffed and said, “I see you’ve finished.” His roaming eyes focused on her and narrowed. “What are you doing over there?”

“Um,” Hermione spun around and grabbed a few books off the bookshelf, holding them to her chest. “Just gathering some materials…for research…”

He raised an aristocratic brow and stared at her.

“Research,” he drawled, sniggering slightly as he sauntered to his desk. “God, all you Ravenclaws are so pretentious. Drop the bookish act in here, Grain. Nobody cares.”

“I don’t think I’ve told you which House I was in,” Hermione said with a frown, squashing down the insult, her mind replaying their conversation the day before.

“Didn’t need to,” he said with a careless shrug. “It’s all in your employee file. Henrietta Grain, Ravenclaw, pretentious know-it-all. Half-blood, muggle mother, wizard father. Wand, what was it,“ – he thought for a moment – “oh right, shoved up your arse. Is that why you’re so uptight?”

“And what’s in _your_ file?,” she shot back. “Draco Malfoy, Slytherin, narcissistic bigot. Pure-blood. Wand,” – Hermione mirrored his pause and glanced down at his crotch, “Oh that’s funny. It says they couldn’t locate it.”

He coloured slightly, but recovered quickly. “I suppose a witch must have been in possession of it,” he replied lightly, and before she could say anymore, added, “Get to work, Grain. I didn’t hire you for conversation.”

Hermione was grateful he put an end to it, for though she knew her mission depended on keeping a low profile and her mouth shut, she found she couldn’t help herself. In spite of the initial fear and loathing that clouded any other emotion when he first walked into the office, the retorts slipped out of her lips naturally, a defensive reflex born out of six years of magical education with the ferret, and six years of back-and-forth arguing.

Strangely enough, there was a familiarity in their exchange that made her feel at ease, almost safe, and in the dusty office she could almost believe he was just Draco Lucius Malfoy, her Hogwarts nemesis, and she was simply Hermione Jean Granger, know-it-all bookworm. That maybe there wasn’t a war beyond the tired looking door, and her parents were really safe at home.

 _Still, if I keep responding to his taunts_ , Hermione thought as she took her seat, _I might as well hand in a resignation letter_. 

Years of holding back Ron and Harry had inevitably increased her tolerance towards handling a conversation with Malfoy, but there was only so much she could take in an enclosed space with him. Alone. It had only been a day since she had started, and though they had yet to throw hexes at the other, she doubted there was any possibility he could be any less hateful, or their conversations less spiteful. 

*** 

It was a warm, slow afternoon, and with nothing but dull work for entertainment, Draco found himself falling into a stupor. Looking across the room, he watched his assistant lazily, turning over Theodore’s words from last night in his mind.

‘ _…but right now you have nothing, and that’s why Daphne is worried. I suppose she thought a pretty girl might solve it but…’_

Despite complaining to about her last night, he found he didn’t really mind her sharp tongue and rather enjoyed her straightforward nature, and in hindsight thought that their verbal spat had actually been quite refreshing. Draco ran his eyes over the witch, whose nose was nearly touching the parchment as she scribbled away. He didn’t mind the defiant fire in her eyes, and rather enjoyed the contour of her mouth. He wondered what she looked like when she smiled. Whatever tender affection that was beginning to cultivate in his sluggish, sleep-deprived brain quickly dissipated when she looked up to rest her weary eyes and caught him staring.

“Is something the matter?” she asked accusingly.

“Yes,” he replied languidly. “You’re not much of a view and it’s starting to hurt my eyes.” 

“Then don’t look,” she snapped.

He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’d like to…but some things are just so terrible, and so hideous, you _want_ to look away but you just _can’t_.”

“That’s rich, coming from you-”

“Oh right, I _am_ rich!” He exclaimed sarcastically. “I’d nearly forgotten. Thank you for reminding me about my family’s gigantic mound of galleons and treasure.”

Draco wasn’t quite sure where he got his energy to retort or how he managed to maintain grandiose in poise and tone these days. Perhaps it was because of the things people said about his family, or the way his family was slighted in their very home, that compelled him to keep up his façade.

“It’s a shame you can’t buy integrity or chivalry with galleons and treasure,” she said stoutly, her lips pressing into a disapproving thin line.

“Funny you should care about either of those, Grain.” Draco’s lip curled. “I thought you Ravenclaws were capable of ruthless acts for your grades. Are you sure you haven’t been sorted into the wrong house? You’d have been happier with those Gryffindor schmucks.”

 An unreadable expression crossed her features. Was it hurt? Nostalgia?

 “I was happy in my house,” she said softly, almost to herself,

There was a disarming tenderness in her face as she lapsed into thoughtful recollection, no doubt of her past, that caused him to swallow his retort (‘ _They probably weren’t, not with you there_ ’). Draco directed his gaze to the dull paperwork, his mind full of the look on her face. He suspected he looked like that too when he thought about his early years at Hogwarts. The room was still and silent, both of them wrapped up in euphoric reminiscence. A memo fluttered in and the bubble burst. This wasn’t Hogwarts. They disliked one another. There was a war outside these doors and his mother was still dead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> I'm back with a new chapter - thank you for reading it!  
> When I was writing this I thought "Wow, they're finally having an interaction that lasts longer than a paragraph..." 
> 
> I feel as though I've cheated anyone who read the previous three chapters thinking this is a Dramione fic d;  
> It is! I swear!! It just takes some time to build up!!! 
> 
> Anyway, I'm sorry if it seems like I'm jumping around scenes before and not as much here.  
> I'm still figuring out how to transition, so please bear with me.  
> I'm talking a lot so I'll stop here. As always, please feel free to leave me a comment! (: 
> 
> Until next time,  
> MistyPaperMoon


	5. Chocolate

Hermione was quite sure the memo did not contain favourable information by the look on his face. Even from across the room she could hear him exhale. She watched as he slumped back on his seat and pinched the bridge of his nose before staring vacantly out the window behind her desk, his slender fingers crossed over his stomach. He stayed still after this, and she turned back to her papers.

After a while he stood up wordlessly, and before Hermione could say anything he was out the door. She remained in her chair for a few more minutes, ears straining to catch any sounds from the carpeted hallway. Satisfied with the silence, Hermione padded over to his desk cautiously and picked up the memo that had clearly troubled Malfoy. It read simply:

**PICK UP, LEVEL TEN**

Her mind started racing. What business did Malfoy have in the Muggle-born Registration Commission? What could he possibly need from _there_ while working _here_? Setting down the memo, she grabbed one of the files on his desk and flipped it open, scanning it quickly and finding nothing out of the ordinary. Hermione picked up another file and found the same tedious work that she was already beginning to be acquainted with on her side of the room. 

A glance at her watch told her it had already been twenty minutes since he walked out, and deciding to utilise whatever time she had left, dropped to her knees and continued examining the circular keyhole in his locked drawer. There were small symbols etched in the brass, which she copied down onto a spare piece of parchment from his desk before stuffing it into her pocket. She would have to find books on magical locks and begin reading when she returned to the apartment. 

Hermione had just reached her seat when the door creaked open and Malfoy stepped in. She could tell immediately that something was wrong. His pale face was ashen and his blonde hair was plastered to his forehead, slick with sweat. He took a stumbling step into the room and Hermione instinctively dashed over to support him, wand clenched tightly in her hand. Malfoy being a pesky, hateful ferret was one thing, to sit idly by while the wizard collapsed was another. 

“Malfoy?” she asked anxiously. “What happened to you? What’s wrong?”

She slung his arm around her shoulder and stumbled awkwardly under his weight and their rather significant height difference. Drawing her other arm around his waist to steady them, she couldn’t help noticing how thin he felt under his robes.

“G-get off me,” he muttered, his ragged breathing tickling her hair. “I can walk by myself.”

Even in his delirious, sickly state, Malfoy struggled weakly against her, and Hermione was reminded of Harry, always trying to do everything by himself even after cracking under the burden.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” she said, grunting slightly as she half-dragged him to his desk. “The only chance you’ve got _walking by yourself_ is if I levitate you and manoeuvre you like a puppet. Would you prefer that?”

He gave a small sigh in response, or perhaps he was only wheezing. Clearly the walk to his desk had drained him of what little energy he had left, for his face was now tinged with green and his lips had turned white. Hermione set him down in the chair, marvelling at how he managed the trip back to the office alone.

“Malfoy? Are you all right?” She hated how gently she spoke, how carefully she had lowered him into his chair. She hated that her parents were missing because of the war; she hated the wizard in front of her for reasons related and unrelated to that, and hated herself for not feeling glad at his suffering.

Hermione conjured a handkerchief and patted his forehead and the back of his neck, soaking up the beads of perspiration that gathered on the surface of his skin. He turned his head away from her movements and she heard a whisper, barely audible.

“L…ve…”

Hermione knelt down by his feet and leaned in anxiously, trying to catch his words. 

“What?”

“I said,” he breathed laboriously, “Leave.”

She sighed and continued patting his forehead. “Look, Malfoy, you need to rest right now, and I’m not going to leave you alone like this. Should I conjure a sofa so you can lie down for a bit? Maybe a glass of water?”

He slapped her hand away with surprising strength.

“Get out now or I will hex you. _Leave.”_

She stood up and glared at him, but his eyes were closed. Sitting down and resting had restored some colour to his cheeks, but his breathing was still shallow, and his skin clammy. Throwing the handkerchief on his desk, she turned on her heel and stalked out the door, slamming it as she went. 

Damn Malfoy. Damn herself for caring. Damn it all. 

***

Draco exhaled shakily, his fingers fumbling as he reached into his drawer and pulled out a bar of chocolate. Unwrapping the foil, he broke off a piece and pushed it into his mouth, warmth spreading gently through his body as it melted on his tongue.

He broke off another piece and popped it in his mouth, crushing the now empty piece of foil. It was from Honeydukes before they boarded up, and his last bar of good chocolate. He supposed he could resort to chocolate frogs; those weren’t too difficult to find, but he didn’t really fancy having the catch the damn things when they tried to hop out the box.

As he leaned back into his chair, the handkerchief on the desk caught his eye and he picked up it. _As expected of a bloody Ravenclaw,_ he thought, turning it over in his hands. _Embroidery spellwork for something like this._

He sighed and leaned back into his chair, running over what just happened as well as he could from his fuzzy memories.

“Well, shit,” Draco finally said into the empty office. She had _cared_ for him, something that hasn’t happened since his mother died, and in his humiliation at being seen in such a damning and vulnerable state, he had pushed her away. He’d been mean. An asshole. A…what was it that Granger called him all those years ago? Loathsome cockroach? 

He pocketed the handkerchief and stood up from his desk, grasping the edge of the table for support. He was still a little wobbly, he decided, but well enough to go searching for his assistant he had dismissed, and although she was a pretentious booksnob he supposed she wasn’t utterly intolerable.

***

It was only after stepping into the lift for the third time after an unsuccessful corridor sweep that Draco realised he had no idea where to go, or where he might find her.

Starting to get annoyed, he turned the controller a little more forcefully than he needed to, and the cool voice spoke: “ _Level eight: Atrium.”_ He was still feeling a bit ill, and this search was starting to stress him out. The sneers or small jumps of fright his presence elicited when he roamed the corridors were burning reminders of his status as a Death Eater, a Malfoy, a has-been, still-is asshole. What he would give to walk into a room and have someone smile because he was there, because they were _glad_ he was there…

It was already time for most workers to go home for the day, and as Draco scanned the atrium, eyes flitting over the many faces, his skills as a Seeker kicked in naturally. While he might have been bested by Potter repeatedly while they were at Hogwarts, he wasn’t _bad_ at the sport – Potter was, as much as he hated to admit it, really quite good. And there she was, moving across the floor towards one of the many gilded fireplaces.

The sight of her slipping away when he was just across the room – and he had walked three bloody floors while searching – sparked a sudden panic and desperation, and he shouted, “Grain!”

The loud and sudden outburst echoed around the Atrium, and then all was silent. His face flushed red as he hurried past curious onlookers, many of whom had stopped what they were doing. He sped up to a jog to get it over with and launched into a sprint when she turned and ducked into the fireplace.

“Hey, wait a mome-”

He had just reached her grate when the roar of emerald flames greeted him. Snatching a handful of Floo powder from a small, porcelain pot on the mantelpiece, he threw it in angrily and found himself in a cab, the door of which snapped close just as she left.

Following suit, he caught up quickly and said, slightly out of breath, “What the hell, Grain. Didn’t you hear me?”

“I did,” she replied without looking at him, continuing at a brisk pace that he was now struggling to match. “You told me to leave.”

“Would you slow down?” he said angrily, reaching out to grab her arm. Two pieces of chocolate definitely weren’t enough, and all that searching and chasing was beginning to take a toll on him.

“Let _go_ of me,” she snarled, twisting her arm from his grip – he held on tighter.

He hadn’t slept at all last night, was sent to Level ten, had to chase down his assistant…all in all, it had been a pretty rough day, and he wasn’t about to let her walk all over him. Not when he was already being walked all over in his own home.

“Shut up and listen,” Draco snarled back. “I –” He stopped short. 

_I…what?_ What was he going to say to her? What did he even want out of this conversation? So he had been a tad ungrateful, perhaps a little curt in typical Malfoy manner, and maybe he regretted it, but Draco hadn’t really given much thought to what he would actually say to his assistant when he walked out of the office to look for her.

“I’m –” _Sorry? Grateful? A mess?_

A gruff voice broke his train of thought.

“Is he hurting you, lady?”

They turned to look at the speaker, a well-built man who was standing rather aggressively, poised to fight.

“It’s none of your business,” Draco replied coldly. Foolish muggle. He could reduce him to a fleshy puddle if he wanted, and as the thought crossed his mind, his hand closed around his wand.

Perhaps sensing this, the witch said hurriedly, “No, it’s fine. Thank you, but I can handle it by myself.”

“You sure?” The man looked Draco up and down with a frown. “’Cause he doesn’t look like he’s acting nice with you.”

“I’m fine, really,” she said, plastering a small smile on her face. “I can manage.”

He nodded hesitantly, and although he still looked dubious decided to leave her with a, “All right then, just give a shout if you need any help.”  

Draco’s lip curled as he watched the man’s receding back. “Nice of you to save him, Grain,” he said smoothly. “I would have hexed him into oblivion if he tried anything.”

“He was right, though. You aren’t acting nice, and right now anyone would think you’re hurting me – which you are, my arm’s gone numb – and I’d like to see you try to hex and obliviate all of them.”

In his hurry he had followed her into muggle London without realising, and as he glanced around, many pedestrians were staring and whispering. She jerked her arm from his grasp, which had gone lax for a moment, and rubbed it while shooting him a dirty look.

“Is it bruised?” Draco asked guiltily.

“Probably,” she replied shortly.

“I know a spell for bruises,” he offered, reaching out to take her arm and feeling a sting when she stepped back. 

“I happen to have a paste for bruises myself.” 

“Well, my spell is probably quicker, so just let me-”

“I don’t need you to do _anything_ for me,” she said forcefully.

“Damn it, Grain! Would you just –” He sighed in frustration and glared over her head, clenching and unclenching his jaw. 

“Just _what_ , exactly? Leave? Stay? Shut up? Listen to you? I’m not a pet you can order around. I’m just here to – to,” she waved her hand as she searched for the words. “To do my job, and I don’t need you to like me, but I don’t see why I should be treated like trash either.”

“It’s been a rough day, all right, and-” 

“You’re not the only one having a _rough day_ , Malfoy,” she hissed. “Some of us just don’t take it out on others.”

The two stood glaring at the other. The evening was getting colder, and as he shoved his hands sullenly into his pockets the handkerchief brushed against his knuckles, and he relented.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said quietly, mumbling into the ground.

“What’s that?”

“I said I didn’t mean it,” he said louder, slightly annoyed.

“Mean what?”

_This woman…_

“I didn’t mean to shout at you. Or hurt you.” He gestured her arm awkwardly. “Sorry about that. And um,” he pulled out the handkerchief, “Thanks. For this.”

She took it and he waited nervously for a response, his mouth turning dry. “Sorry” and “Thank you” weren’t words he was particularly used to; in Slytherin courtesy gave way to status, and most of the time arguments and past disagreements were swept under the rug, or embedded deep into the heart. And yet the war had changed him, all of them.

“Don’t…don’t grab my arm like that ever again.”

Relief washed over him and Draco looked up quickly. “I won’t.” Then, feeling the full-extent of his previous exertions catch up with him in bout of light-headedness, asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have any chocolate, would you?”

“No, but I’m sure you can get a bar of Cadbury’s easily,” she looked around and pointed at a shop. “They’ll definitely have them in there.”

“What’s a Cadbury?” He said blankly. She stared at him for a moment and then chuckled.

“Oh, right, you wouldn’t know. It’s a type of muggle chocolate, and they have all sorts of different types, like with nuts or fruit. There are other brands too, if you wanted, say, caramel or cookie filling, but I suppose you couldn’t buy it even if you wanted to, since you need muggle money.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know so much about muggle chocolate?”

“I’m muggle…muggle mother.” She looked away. “I’ve got a muggle mother, so of course I’d know about this.”

He thought back to her employee file – yes, she was a half-blood. He ran a tired hand through his hair and sighed. What the hell was he doing, accusing his assistant over a bar of chocolate?

“Have you got any muggle money on you?”

“I do.” She raised a brow. “You want me to buy it for you?”

“I’ll pay you back, of course,” he said swiftly.

“No, that’s not…I just meant, it’s made by muggles, and you’re –,” she faltered under the look he gave and hurried on, “you might not be used to it.”

Draco would in all honesty prefer Honeydukes, or even a chocolate frog, but some part of him felt as though the act of trying muggle chocolate would function as a sort of truce between the two of them, and he figured he owed his assistant that much. 

“It’s fine. Now, let’s go get this Caggery thing.”

“It’s Cadbury,” she replied, a hint of the smallest smile in her voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! 
> 
> Thank you for reading this chapter :)  
> Sorry for the late update, I was away for a little bit. 
> 
> I'll be starting a job next week, so I probably won't have as much time to write.  
> Future chapters will be a little shorter than the ones I'm posting now...but I'll do my best!!
> 
> As always, feel free to leave a comment, thank you for kudos-ing and, 
> 
> Until next time,  
> MistyPaperMoon


	6. Failures

“What the hell is going on?”

Draco had returned home and, upon entering the library, found he had walked into the midst of an argument between Pansy and Theodore, chests heaving as they stood glaring at one another with Daphne perched on a loveseat and looking immensely relieved at his arrival. The silencing charms cast by his ancestors for the room had clearly been outstanding spellwork, for he had heard none of the shouting in the hallway.

“Tell him,” snarled Theodore, and Pansy obliged.

“The Dark Lord has put his faith into our family. We have served him loyal-“

“Spare us,” spat Theodore. “Just get to the point, Parkinson.”

“Loyally,” she continued, ignoring the curly-haired boy. “I have been chosen by the Dark Lord himself, who has put me in charge of interrogating Granger’s parents.”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “What? Since when?”

“Last night. I was summoned after dinner,” she replied proudly.

Draco settled into the seat beside Daphne and shrugged. “Isn’t that good for us, Theodore? Something off our plates.” 

“It would be, if what she’s been doing is interrogating.”

The pug-faced girl lurched into a displeased silence, her lip curling the way Draco had seen it done many times back in Hogwarts when she was preparing to launch into a verbal spar.

“Is there something you’d like to say about my methods, Nott?”

“Oh, not at all,” Theodore sneered. “Because there isn’t any _method_ to speak of. You’ve simply been performing uncivilised, brutish magic the same way an ape brandishes a stick. All of our work, Draco,” he said, turning to face the pale blonde, “wasted by this tramp.”

Pansy made a noise like a choking cat. “I have made more progress in one day than the both of you have made in a month!”

“And I’m telling you there’s no point in forcefully breaking the charm! We have been careful in untangling the memory charm so as to – to retain the mind, and you’ve single-handedly ruined all our efforts. It’s no wonder you failed that class-”

“Are you doubting the Dark Lord’s advice and suggestion then,” said Pansy loudly, “because these were the instructions I was given.”

“Daphne,” said Draco tiredly, “Could you just…what has Pansy been doing exactly?”

The blonde witch shifted uncomfortably as the room stilled and three pairs of eyes focused on her. “Well, personally I don’t care what method is used as long as it gets the job done, but Pansy’s been torturing the muggles to break the memory charm, the usual stuff, you know – potions, curses, _crucio_ -”

“Which breaks the mind!” Theodore shrieked. “How are we supposed to salvage leads if the muggles can’t bloody remember who they are?”

It was unusual to see the bony, curly-haired boy so agitated or speak with such an impassioned manner. Draco had known him since childhood, and for most of their friendship Theodore had displayed a general disinterest towards life, preferring to indulge in wry observations and dry wit. Nothing ever seemed to ruffle him; he often seemed as though separated from the world by a piece of glass, behind which he was immune to the happenings of what occurred on the other side.

“The Dark Lord is never wrong, Nott,” Pansy said coldly. “He is growing impatient, so I have been selected to complete what the both of you failed to do.”

“I didn’t fail, but you will, and you're going to get all of us punished.” The hem of Theodore’s cloak flapped against Draco’s knees as he stormed out of the room, shooting a jinx at a portrait – which had been complaining about the shouting – in ill temper.

Daphne followed suit after a glance at her watch, muttering something about an appointment.

Waving his wand wearily, Draco removed the jinx with a quick “Sorry about that”, his eye trained on Pansy who slinked into an armchair, making an elaborate show of adjusting her silk robes. It was evident she had something more to say, for she would have left the room otherwise, but whether it was to gloat or to taunt was anybody’s guess. When the fidgeting ceased and the dust settled, she began.

“I’m arranging to have the muggles moved to my family manor.”

“If that’s what the Dark Lord wishes,” Draco said coolly.

He knew this game. After Wormtail restored the Dark Lord’s physical body, the Death Eaters had been locked in an internal strife, each clamouring over the other in an attempt to rectify the crime of abandoning their Lord after his demise that fateful night in the Potter’s house at Godric’s Hollow, vying for their Lord’s favour by offering their wealth and manors.

Whichever family had secured the most alluring deals, the most important prisoners, would be rewarded with glory and safety from his wrath, at least for a little while. Draco had watched his father triumph over and over, and now those victories had merged into a curse he woke into every day.

“He left this morning to speak with my Father, and I think you’ll agree our manor is a more…” Pansy hesitated and glanced loftily around the room, “comfortable place for the Dark Lord, and our dungeons better suited to hold such important captives.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll appreciate the _cosy_ nature of your rooms. You lot will be sitting so close to one another you’ll be rubbing elbows. And I suppose you’re right, the muggles deserve to be confined in a smaller shithole. Our dungeon is clearly far too luxurious.”

She bristled in response, but Draco pushed on before she could reply. “Look, Pansy, I don’t care where you take the muggles, but Theodore has a point. It’s meaningless if you break the memory charm forcefully. Remember what Aunt Bella did to Longbottom’s parents? Or what the Dark Lord did to Bertha Jorkins? We need these muggles intact.”

“Are you advising _me?”_ She scoffed, and barked out a small disbelieving laugh. “I think you’re forgetting where you stand now, Draco.” 

He stood up looked around the room oafishly, pulling a look of mocking concentration. “That’s strange, I was sure I was in my library…”

“Grow up,” she said as Draco moved towards the door.

“It’s not that fun, Pansy,” he replied, and turning around with a smirk, added, “You’ll understand when you grow up.”

***

He found Theodore sitting the hallway where the bedrooms were located, and though still in a foul mood – as indicated by the cold stare in his eye – the wiry boy appeared to have calmed down. Draco approached cautiously, his hesitation stemming not from fear but uncertainty. His upbringing since childhood had armed him with “the mannerisms and proper conduct of a Malfoy”, as his father used to say, while his family name had naturally secured a superior position within Slytherin while at Hogwarts. Yet, as he neared his friend Draco realised he had never been one, never needed to be one, wasn’t sure how to be one. People flocked to him naturally, and he contented with banter that masked the lack of emotional connection.

“Theodore,” said Draco with a small nod.

“I broke a lamp,” Theodore responded flatly, pointing at the door beside him. “Also a chair, and the cabinet.”

Draco opened the door and peered inside. “Damn it, Theodore,” he said with a sigh, closing it with a snap. “You couldn’t have picked another room to wreck? Or cleaned up after yourself?”

“I’ll do it later,” came the short reply, and then the two boys fell silent.

Draco stood awkwardly, glancing at paintings of faraway places that lined the hall, waves splashing onto painted beaches and trees that rustled as a wind swept across the canvas. Finally, Theodore spoke again. 

“D’you think we’re failures?”

It was uncharacteristic of Theodore to be so self-doubting, and the question caught Draco off-guard.

“Why? Because of what Pansy said?”

Theodore shrugged miserably, and Draco lowered himself onto the carpeted floor to sit beside him. 

“Look,” he said, “Pansy's an ass. Our task was the remove the memory charm. We simply chose to complete the task using different means from her.”

“We didn’t complete it though, did we? We had a chance and we messed it up, and now my father’s going to kill me,” Theodore said.

The hallway seemed to drag out for miles either way, because this was different from getting a bad grade or smuggling bottles of Firewhiskey into their dormitory. This was war, and the shame of a prideful soldier’s son. 

“He won’t,” Draco said firmly. “There’s still the other project.” 

“It’s nothing compared to Granger’s parents. He’d murder me if that were what it took to reclaim the task of questioning Granger’s parents. I can see it already,” Theodore lowered his voice to a growl and grovelled mockingly. “‘I’ve killed my idiot son to atone for his foolishness. Please, my Lord, allow me.’”

“There are other ways to gain the Dark Lord’s favour. Surely your father knows that.”

“Potter is the _sure_ way to gain his favour.” Theodore lowered his voice mockingly again, “’If we please the Dark Lord, he might even gift me with the Resurrection Stone. I could bring your mother back!’ Or so my father says.”

“The Resurrection Stone? There’s no way that exists. Or works.”

“Well, apparently it does. My father’s seen it. Dumbledore gave it to Potter, but the Dark Lord took it back at the Battle.”

“All right, but there’s no way that thing actually works. Besides, even if the fairy tale is true, it’s basically saying you _shouldn’t_ resurrect people if that’s what ends up happening.”

“You wouldn’t want to see your mother again?” Theodore asked quietly, staring at the wall in front of them. 

There was a pause. The hallway seemed to hold its’ breath, and Draco felt a familiar rush of pain and longing rush out of a little box he kept locked away in the back of his mind.

“Of course I would,” he finally said. “I’d give anything to see her again.” 

Theodore nodded. “So would my father,” he said bitterly. “He’d give his son up to see his wife again. Why can’t he -” His voice broke off, lost among words that were caught in his throat, tripping on the tip of his tongue. “Why can’t he be happy with me?”

Time seemed to stand still as the question hung in mid-air between them. What was the right thing to do when somebody hands you the broken pieces of their soul?

“My father expected me to be top of class and the whole time I was at Hogwarts Granger had better grades,” Draco began slowly. “I never won a single Quidditch match against Potter and by Merlin, did I try. My mission during our sixth year was to kill Dumbledore, and I couldn’t do it. Maybe I didn’t really want to. When Potter was brought here two years ago, I didn’t turn him in like my father and Aunt Bella wanted, and maybe my mother would still be alive and Father wouldn’t so miserable if I had, but for the first time in years I felt like I was finally doing something right.”

“Or maybe you were just a coward,” Theodore said wryly.

If it had been anybody else, Draco would have found offense in the suggestion, but here he simply answered with a shrug.

“There are worse things to be than a coward. I would know, I’m Head of fucking House-elf Relocation.”

Theodore snorted, then broke into a chuckle that died down into a smile that lingered on his lips. The two boys sat in silence, embarrassed by the candid nature of their conversation, and there they remained in tender and delicate stillness until a handsome mahogany door down the hall swung open. A bony girl with scraggly hair and a scruffy dress tumbled from the room, giggling as she kissed goodbye to a slender blonde witch draped in a silk robe before scampering to the stairs. 

The boys needed but one glance at the witch leaning against the doorframe, face flushed and a sultry gaze that followed the retreating footsteps of the girl, to guess what had occurred behind the door just a moment ago.

“Really, Daphne?” Draco called, slightly annoyed. “Who the hell was that? Mind not turning my place into a whorehouse?"

“Why’re you two sitting here?” Daphne asked as she sauntered over.

“So shabby,” Theodore said disapprovingly, his gaze following the girl until she was out of sight “So _seedy_.”

“I like them seedy,” she retorted with a small smile, then prodding something with the toe of her slipper, asked, “What’s this?” 

It was the purple Cadbury wrapper, evidently having fallen out of Draco’s pocket when he sat down, and now looked rather out of place on the floor of his home. He reached out to retrieve it, but Daphne was faster. She swooped down like a bird of prey and snatched the wrapper from the ground, holding it up in scrutinising examination.

“Cad-bury,” she read slowly, eyes running over the swirling letters. “Wha-“

“Muggle chocolate,” Theodore supplemented, with an air of surprise.

“Give it here,” Draco snapped, casting a quick _Accio_. The wrapper tore out of Daphne’s grasp to his waiting hand and was quickly pocketed. He knew should throw it away; yet there was an unexplainable desire to keep it tucked away, safe and hidden.

“What’s that doing in the pocket of a Malfoy?” Daphne asked curiously.

“Who was that girl just now?” Draco shot back.

“All right,” she said with a laugh, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “I was just asking. Keep your rubbish secret.” Then turning to Theodore, she asked, “How’d you know it was muggle chocolate?”

“To look down on muggles is one thing,” he replied loftily. “To be ignorant of them is another.”

“Oh right, because our measure of ignorance is based off knowledge on muggle chocolate.”

“That’s not my point-”

“Because you never have one, you just like listening to the sound of your voice and grandiose philosophies-”

“I’m going to bed,” Draco said, standing up with a grunt. Their bickering faded as he walked to his room, his heart felt lighter than ever.

The Dark Lord might move out of his house and into Pansy’s, he’d had a meaningful conversation with Theodore, and who would have thought muggle chocolate was actually quite good? As he stripped his clothes off and crawled into bed, the purple wrapper peeking out of his pants pocket caught his eye, and for the first in many nights he fell asleep without the familiar feeling of dread that accompanied the prospect of waking up and going to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> I'm sorry this chapter is so late.  
> I started my new job and it was a lot more taxing than I expected...all I wanted to do when I got home was put on The Office and unwind.  
> Still, I've been putting this chapter together bit by bit so thank you for being patient.   
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think - and in the meantime I'll try not to have a mental breakdown at my job and work on Chapter Seven diligently.
> 
> Until next time,  
> MistyPaperMoon


	7. Allowance for Happiness

 

Harry was content for the first time in a long while, and he struggled to be at ease with the feeling. He had finished a delicious dinner, courtesy of Mrs Weasley, and now he was in front of a cosy fireplace, fingers interlaced with Ginny, their breaths even and steady. Her head was warm on his shoulder, flaming hair cascading down the side of his sleeve, threading itself into the wool. He sighed deeply and Ginny looked up at the sound.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Harry,” she began in a _don’t-test-my-patience_ sort of way, sitting up straight and tucking her hair behind her ear, “Don’t keep everything to yourself and shut me out.” 

“It’s just that…this doesn’t feel right.”

“What doesn’t? Has your scar been hurting? Is it You-Know-Who? Have you been having those dreams again?”

“No, Ginny,” he said hastily in the onslaught of her questions. “I meant this” – he held up their laced fingers – “doesn’t feel right.”

She snatched her hand away, looking hurt. “If you weren’t happy with-”

“I am happy!” Harry cried, reaching out and grasping her hand desperately. “I _am_ , Ginny, and I-I’m not sure I’m allowed to be. There’s a war, your mum and Ron are out there on patrol, Hermione’s in the Ministry surrounded by enemies, but I’m sat here safe, and I get to be with you, and I feel…selfish,” he concluded dejectedly.

Ginny’s temper cooled with every word.

“All right then,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder again. “Let’s be selfless and mope around together, and we’ll have such a bloody miserable time we’ll put the rest of them to shame.”

Harry managed a small smile, and she squeezed his hand in return.

“Nobody is going to blame you for being happy, Harry,” she said quietly. “You don’t always need to be saving the world. Let us do that for you sometimes.”

They settled comfortably on the lumpy couch, blanketed by silence. The fire crackled gently, glowing embers, dying ashes. He kept it to himself, but every time Harry sat in front of the fireplace, some part of him always expected Sirius’s face to appear in the cinders as though breaking through the surface of water, and his godfather would toss his shaggy hair back with the all-familiar smile that turned the clock backwards on his gaunt face.

Dragging his eyes away from the flames, he nuzzled Ginny’s fiery hair, trying to nestle into contentment and failing. It was the tossing and turning in bed on a sleepless night, the scrunched up fabric in a jacket sleeve, and every idle minute spent snuggled on the couch made him increasingly ill at ease.

“I’ve been having dreams lately,” he said, breaking the quiet. “You-Know-Who finds us, and he murders Ron, and Hermione, and Mrs Weasley, and you…what if it’s not a dream? What if that really happens, Ginny? It’s never going to be safe as long as I’m here-”

“So what?” said Ginny fiercely, sitting up straight to glare at him. “Are you going to leave again? Camp out in the middle of the woods with my brother? You’ve done enough trying to keep everyone safe, so why won’t you let us protect you for once?”

“Because when You-Know-Who finds us-”

“ _If_ he finds us, then we fight him. All of us.”

And she was beautiful, red hair flaming in the flickering light from the fireplace, blazing in an unwavering conviction in a triumphant victory that Harry was too exhausted to believe in.

“It’s going to be dangerous,” he said with a small, resigned smile.

“If I wanted safe I wouldn’t be with you.”

Harry found himself unable to pull away from her smouldering gaze. As the distance closed between them he felt the warmth of desire spreading like a fever, clouding his vision and all he could see was the hazel of her eyes, the cupid’s bow dipped into cream rouge, her hair falling in a ruby sheet over the smooth curve of her shoulder…Ginny…Ginny…and he was engulfed in the bouquet of her perfume, and her breath was on his lips-  

There was a loud thump and Ron’s voice pierced through the haze.

“Is there any food from dinne-” Ron stopped at the door and flushed red, turning away and moving to the kitchen. “Go snog somewhere else! Other people live here, you know!”

The spell was broken.

“Mum’s left some pie for you,” Ginny called after his retreating back. “Stupid twit,” she added under her breath. Lacing her fingers through Harry’s, she stood up and tugged his hand. “Come on, let’s go to my room.”

“I think I’ll stay,” he replied from the couch. “I want to talk to Ron for a bit.” He saw the look on her face and smiled apologetically. “I’ll come up later,” he offered.

“Forget it,” she snapped, turning on her heel and moving to the door.

“Good night, Ginny.”

He watched her brisk steps falter, and the rigid posture crumbled.

“Come up later,” she said.

Loneliness and Fear often crept under the covers in 12 Grimmauld Place these days, but there was less space for them in a bed shared by two.

***

The scratching of a quill was the only sound to be heard in the small apartment. Surrounded by stacks of books with cracked spines and weathered covers, Hermione had buried herself in tiny lettering on yellowing pages, stopping occasionally to rub her tired eyes or aching neck. Hoping to open Malfoy’s desk drawer, she had been reading books on magical locks and methods to bypass locking spells, but progress had been slow and the jumble of symbols she had copied remained a mystery.

As the clock hands ticked closer to three in the morning, she yawned and, shivering slightly, pulled on an old, stretched maroon sweater. The nights were getting steadily colder as rustling leaves piled up on the sidewalks, and dementors that swept through the streets at night added to the chill. Burnt out from studying theories and advanced spell work, she closed her book with a snap and relocated to the sofa. Pulling a purring Crookshanks onto her lap, she scratched him behind the ears absentmindedly, her thoughts straying to Draco Malfoy as she stared at a receipt that lay on the coffee table.

Since returning to the apartment, Hermione had avoided thinking about their excursion that evening, because reflecting upon it had caused her lips to stretch into an unconscious smile, and such an expression felt forbidden in her current circumstance.

“Here.” She had navigated through the small shop with him following behind, cloak rustling, cologne wafting.

“Caggery,” he said with a small nod, facing a shelf of deep purple nestled in the colourful aisle.

“ _Cadbury_ ,” she corrected him with a roll of her eyes. “Pick one and let’s go.”

There was something nerve wrecking about sharing muggle items with wizards. She was reminded unpleasantly of Ron’s reaction when she brought him to her parent’s clinic years ago (“Bloody hell, ‘mione…” he’d said with a disgusted face, and had felt so queasy he skipped dinner), and Mr. Weasley’s destructive enthusiasm.

Malfoy had stood wordlessly in the middle of the aisle with an unreadable expression, his cool grey eyes roaming the neatly stacked rows of sweets. What was he going to pick? Would he like the same things she did? Would he like any of it at all? Silence was not something she had shared with Malfoy, and in its cold, uncertain waters she snuck glances at his profile more times than she had at Lockheart in her second year, steeling herself for insults that never came.

“What’s this?” He picked up a bar that said “Oreo” and turned it over in his hands, squinting as he read the minuscule font on the back of the wrapper. She had expected him to make fun of _something_ , but all her years at Hogwarts with Malfoy could not have prepared her for the candid curiosity in his tone.

“That’s got bits of Oreos in it,” she finally replied after recovering from her shock. “It’s a type of cookie,” she added quickly when she saw a shadow of confusion cross his features.

“Oh. Okay.” The bar was returned to its place on the shelf. 

“Oreos in a Cadbury bar – too many new muggle things for you to handle in one day, Malfoy?”

The difference between teasing and taunting was the relationship between the conversationalists, and he replied –

“Nope, I just don’t like cookie bits in my chocolate. Wouldn’t mind nuts though.” He picked up another bar and sighed. “Nuts _and_ raisins?”

They had stayed in the shop for nearly half an hour, and Hermione found she was, against her will, learning things about Draco Malfoy that created ripples in his image as a blonde, despicable ferret. He was a bully and a coward. “ _Jelly Belly? Ohh, muggle Bertie Bott’s…y’know, I ate a whole box of those on a dare once, with a spoon and everything. Never ate another one since._ ” He was an obnoxious narcissist. “ _Gummy worms…are these similar to Jelly Slugs? I’ve got a friend who’s quite fond of them._ ”

Finally he had picked out his purchase – a plain bar of milk chocolate. The cashier waved them forward and she paid, a crumpled twenty-pound note that was –

“Purple, just like the chocolate wrapper,” he observed.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything else?”

“Just need this for tonight. Maybe I’ll come back again,” he considered her for a moment while they waited for the change. “You could give me a tour of the crisps next time. I think I could handle it after a month or so of mental preparation.”

As Hermione put her change away, Malfoy slipped a galleon into her coin compartment.

“Deposit,” he said as she opened her mouth. “For the next shopping trip.”

He navigated to the door through leaving shoppers with her following behind, cloak rustling, tongue-tied.

The receipt lay on the coffee table. The bin was a wand’s wave away. Wrapped in the warmth of an old, stretched maroon sweater, Hermione fell asleep staring at the small print.

***

The only thing that comforted Harry during this period of house arrest was the fact that it brought him closer to Sirius, in one way or another. He imagined his godfather roaming the hallways as he did, wondering if their steps ever overlapped. Whenever a member of the Order visited or returned from patrol, he found himself pouncing on every snippet of news that was carried in from the world outside by a weary friend; perhaps he shared such eagerness and desperation with Sirius too.

“How was it tonight?”

Ron was shovelling steaming pie into his mouth (it was chicken pot pie on the menu). He stopped – Harry leaned in excitedly – then slurped a spoonful of soup before returning to the food.

“Well?” Harry said impatiently, fighting the urge to repeat Hermione’s frustrated ‘ _Do you ever stop eating?!_ ” that accompanied nearly every meal.

“Well,” Ron began, his cheeks bulging. He swallowed the mouthful of food, and then continued. “It was the same as always. Quiet.”

“What’s the rest of the Order doing?” Harry asked quickly, trying to get as many questions in the dialogue as he could before Ron took another bite. “Are there any new leads? Did you see anything suspicious? Is everyone still safe?”

“Dunno, I was just on patrol tonight. Didn’t meet up with anyone. You know all the meetings are held here anyway.” He fell silent, picking at the pie with his fork. “Mum’s dropped in to check on George.”

Harry’s stomach pinched. It always did when somebody mentioned George or Teddy; ghosts followed those names, and called him a murderer in his sleep. Despite the Weasleys tearfully saying it wasn’t his fault, or Andromeda declaring it was all for a noble cause, Harry blamed himself for the deaths of Fred and Remus and Tonks. After the grief, guilt coloured their memory and shame was all he felt.

He cast a quick glance at Ron, who was still pushing his pie around the plate. Secretly, Harry wondered if his best friend despised him for – Fred’s death, dating Ginny, Mr Weasley getting hurt, finding a Horcrux, being a Horcrux – …e _verything._ And worse still, he wondered if Ron regretted it all, if he wished he had never walked into Harry’s train compartment on their first day to Hogwarts.

“How’s he-” Harry’s voice cracked, his mouth was parched. He licked his lips and tried again. “How’s he doing? Is the joke shop still…?” He trailed off, unsure what to say.

Still open? Still “Weasley & Weasley”? Or was it now “Weasley”?

“He’s okay.” Everybody was ‘okay’ these days. Being alive was ‘okay’. “They-he closed up the joke shop. There’s a lot to handle, even with the assistant. Orders, new inventions, that sort of thing, you know.”

Harry nodded. Mourning, loneliness, that sort of thing. He knew.

“I might help out when things get…better,” Ron continued. “With the shop, I mean.”

_Would things get better?_ Harry thought.

“That sounds great,” Harry said.

“Yeah…have you heard from Hermione?”

“No. She sent a patronus the other day, remember? She probably shouldn’t risk sending messages unless she needs to.”

“Right.”

The boys fell silent. Ron set the plate aside on a low table beside the couch and sunk into the leather; the dark shadows under his eyes sunk deeper still. The soup had gone cold, and the space between them ached with the absence of a bushy haired bookworm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there!
> 
> Thank you for reading this chapter.   
> This took me a while to write, I've been swamped with IRL commitments.  
> When I thought about what to write about, I realised we haven't checked in on Harry and Ron in a while...so here we are.   
> It's a quiet chapter, probably because I'm often working on it at night.
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Until next time,  
> MistyPaperMoon


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